


It's Called Fashion, Look It Up

by rachhell



Series: South Park Kink Meme [3]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Bottom Craig, Dirty Talk, Dressing Room Sex, Facials, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Porn With Plot, Quickies, South Park Kink Meme, Top Tweek, and ru paul’s drag race, craig is such a bitch, gratuitous references to the kardashians, guitarist tweek, heavily implied style-kydi love triangle in the making, love at first.... bang?, my deepest apologies to Avenged Sevenfold, stylist craig, the kink meme fill that got totally out of control, this cured my writer's block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: Rock band Moop is almost, but not quite, famous enough to be big name in the music scene. Lead guitarist Tweek Tweak thinks that the hiring of Craig Tucker, celebrity stylist and designer, to revamp their image is probably the worst idea they've ever come up with. It doesn't help that Craig is such a fanboy, or that he's so damn sexy that it's distracting. They definitelydon'tneed him... right?Written for the South Park Kink Meme revival eleganza extravaganza.





	It's Called Fashion, Look It Up

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I _know_ I have a million other things to write. Yes, I know that I have multichapters going now. But when this prompt popped up on the kink meme tumblr, I just couldn't help myself! Many, _many,_ thanks to whoever sent this for getting me out of my writer's block, if only just for a little bit!
> 
> Written for the prompt of: _Lead Guitarist!Tweek (Metalhead fashion) gets it on with Fanboy Fashion Designer!Craig (think Metro style) in a private dressing room. Craig is on all fours on the floor and desperate for it while Tweek is nervous-horny because this is his first time doing it with a fan._

****Tweek ran into rehearsal, sweaty and panting, about twenty minutes late, which, for the lead guitarist of Moop, was practically on-time. Normally, when he was late, he’d receive a disapproving glare and cluck of the tongue from Kyle but, seeing as their rhythm guitarist was currently involved in yet another shouting row with their lead singer - while Butters and Token awkwardly pretended to ignore them - Tweek’s entrance into their studio went, mercifully, unnoticed - that is, until he clicked open the hinges of his guitar case and slung the strap of his Flying V over his shoulder.

Kyle, his wild hair held back in a low ponytail, was turning an angry shade of pink that clashed horribly with his red curls. Neither his hair, nor the flush on his face were complemented in any positive manner by the bright orange of his ratty polo shirt. “And it’s not _my_ fucking fault that fatass thinks we need to revamp our image!” he shouted between tuning his guitar. He twisted the knobs quickly, angrily, which made Tweek cringe so hard that his head spasmed, for fear that Kyle might break a string.

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who- Oh, hey, Tweek.” Stan grinned at him, as if he and the man he called his best friend hadn’t just been bickering like an old, married couple (although, if you’d ask Tweek, best friends neither fought like that, nor rubbed their thighs together under the table while they were drunk, either thinking they were sneaky enough that nobody would pick up on it, or doing it out of some unconscious, deeply-buried attraction or connection. They might not have even realized they were doing it, but they totally _were,_ Tweek had seen it a million times. Not that it was any of his business, of _course_ ). Stan took a swig from his bottled water, before turning his attention back to Kyle with a furrowed brow. “Anyway, fatass has a point. He’s a shithead, but that shithead _does_ know what he’s doing, business-wise, and if he thinks our image might need revamping, maybe we-”

“What? What’d you say?” Tweek stiffened, as he finally paid attention to what Stan and Kyle were actually fighting about. _That_ wasn’t good news at all. He knew what happened when bands changed their look. They sold out, and, while Tweek couldn’t speak for any of his bandmates, _he_ certainly wasn’t a fucking _sellout_ and never would be. “‘Revamping our image!?’ Our, agh, our image doesn’t need fucking _revamping,_ man!” Nervously, he fiddled with the edge of the old, peeling Nine Inch Nails sticker on the body of his guitar. It was the first sticker he’d put on there when he’d bought the thing, and even though he’d carefully removed the rest of them some time ago after much internal deliberation over keeping his guitar looking the way it wanted, versus preserving its resale value, that one would stay until it disintegrated. “Who’s, agh, changing shit? What’s going on, man?”

“Yeah, dude, Eric hired some stylist, or something,” said Stan, “Says if we wanna make it big, we gotta change. Said something about, oh, you guys can’t go out there in t-shirts or whatever if you wanna get farther than being the first opener.”

“That piece of shit,” Kyle fumed, “Avenged Sevenfold wears t-shirts, and look how much people like _them._ ”

Butters, perched in anticipation behind his drum kit, finally piped up. “Not all the time.”

“Yeah, but Avenged Sevenfold are, like, really fucking famous and we _aren’t_ that fucking famous _or_ that talented,” Stan said.

“Avenged Sevenfold look like a bunch of, nnn, douchebags, man!” Tweek protested.

“Nah, Avenged Sevenfold wears _nice_ t-shirts, not what we wear, and they’ve got all of them tattoos,” Butters continued, only to be talked around by Stan and Kyle. He sighed. “Maybe I should get me some more tattoos.”

“Stan, you’re just as good a singer as that dude,” Kyle replied, his tone and expression both softening, “Shouldn’t matter what you look like.”

Tweek could’ve sworn he saw Stan blush. “Naw, I’m really not.”

“Sure you are,” Kyle protested.

“Am not, dude!”

“Are _too!”_

Tweek rolled his eyes. _Why don’t you two just get a room and be done with it,_ he thought. Even if they _themselves_ didn’t know that they were flirting with each other, it was obvious to anyone with eyes, ears, and at least a modicum of social intelligence that there was _something_ there. He recalled, for a fleeting moment, that he’d actually been asked that very question at one of the interviews Eric was always shipping him off to do - _is there something between your singer and rhythm guitarist? The chemistry is undeniable! -_ and having to give his alleged “expert” opinion as an openly gay rock musician that no, they were just great friends and both of them are _most definitely not_ bisexual to some degree and totally, _obviously_ not into each other, all the while holding his tongue.

Those fucking _interviews._ He knew how good they were for the band. He _knew,_ but it didn’t mean that he hated them any less. He was, at the very least, thankful that the vast majority of them happened over Skype - Tweek could hardly fathom the added stressors of being bounced from room to room, teams of wide-eyed journalists perched eagerly around a conference table, staring him down. There was absolutely no way he would be able to handle that pressure, not on top of touring, dealing with tiffs between his bandmates, and meeting a seemingly endless array of overly-enthusiastic fans whose faces had started to blend together into one amorphous mass. It really was a lot for him to take on, but as soon as the first chord of one of their songs rang out through whichever venue they were appearing in, all of the suffocating pressure, the panic-inducing stress melted away.  
  
Performing was different than a barrage of questions from pretentious publications. It didn’t matter if all eyes were on him - he could lose himself in the music.

“We’re famous enough for Tweek to get all those interviews,” Token, regarding his bass with a look of concern as he tuned it, said, as if he were reading Tweek’s mind.

“Gah!” Tweek’s head jerked to the side in an involuntary, nervous spasm.

“It’s just ‘cause he’s gay,” Butters said, matter-of-factly, lifting his brow when all eyes in the room turned to face him incredulously, “What? You know I’m not lyin’. A-and, y’know, fellas, Eric ain’t exactly _wrong_ about our image.”

Kyle let out an exasperated huff. “Yes he _is_ wrong!”

“Dude, it was your stupid idea to make Cartman in charge of all that publicity stuff in the first place,” Stan tossed out, tapping a little too hard on his microphone.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want him in the band anymore!”

“And now he says he _is_ the band. Nice going.”

Butters chuckled. “Heh, yeah! Nice one, Kyle!”

“Shut _up,_ Butters!” both Stan and Kyle exclaimed, practically in unison.

“Aw,” said Butters, dejectedly, “You guys, this’ll be good for us.”

Tweek couldn’t just stand there, playing warmups on his unplugged guitar, and let them _say_ that. He was absolutely, one-hundred percent, in agreement with Kyle. When they’d asked him to join their struggling punk band, even after their sound had evolved into more traditional alternative rock, even after they’d ousted Eric as their singer and Kenny’s promise that his childhood friend, Butters, was a much better drummer than he proved to be quite true, they’d made a promise that, if by some miracle they actually made it, those industry fuckers would _not_ get the best of them.

But, that was _precisely_ what was happening, and Tweek could, and would not keep quiet about it. “Jesus! It fucking will not be _good_ ! I-I know how this shit happens, man! First it’s your clothes, then it’s your sound. Your _sound_ , man! We’re not gonna let this stylist fucker change our, nngh, our sound, are we?”

The rest of the band looked at each other, reluctant to say anything to worsen Tweek’s ranting, until Token shrugged. He was usually the most impartial, and the best at keeping things peaceful in a band of otherwise very strong personalities. The magazines said he was _the quiet one,_ but it was more than he chose his words wisely, neither posting nonsensical, alcohol-fueled tweets at three in the morning like Stan, nor going on self-righteous political rants like Kyle. He was reluctant to join their band in the first place - Lord only knew why he’d stuck around, but they were all grateful that he had. “I don’t think he has a say in that. I’m open to this stylist thing, I guess, and if Eric tries to make us wear something dumb, we can always tell him to fuck off,” Token said, “Nobody can _make_ us.”

“Yeah. Nobody can _make_ us do anything. What Kyle was screaming about -“ Stan shut his eyes for one impatient moment, ignoring another sarcastic huff from Kyle “- is that this stylist person is coming by the studio on Wednesday before we start practicing so be early,” he said, with a pointed glare toward Tweek.

“Besides, didn’t we already change our sound? Like, back before I joined up,” Token tossed out, casually.

“I was, agh, barely in the band then!” Tweek said in a panicked moan, “Oh, god, are you gonna kick me out? Are you-”

“Oh,” Token said, probably on purpose to steer the conversation away from another of Tweek’s meltdowns, “Guys, this reminds me… Can _you_ remind me to give my bass to Kenny so he can check it out? It’s making some weird rattling noise.”

“Shit, dude,” Stan said, “Totally.”

“As long as you can play today, man,” Tweek gasped, “I, agh, I gotta play something, I gotta take my mind off that, hng, stylist shit, y’know?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Token replied, with a tiny chuckle and slight shake of his head, “Like anyone would kick you out of the band anyway, Tweek, you’re more popular than any of us.”

“‘Cause he’s gay,” Butters grumbled to himself.

Stan took a long gulp of water, and made sure that his mic stan was adjusted just the way he wanted it. “It’s gonna be okay, Tweek. It’ll probably be some stupid, hot chick from LA, and we’ll be able to talk her into keeping things exactly the way they are.”

“Hnnnngh,” groaned Tweek. He plugged in his guitar, and strummed a long, angry chord. “I dunno, you guys.”

“Relax, dude.” Squaring his shoulders, Stan set down his water, and took a breath. “All right! Ready?”

Kyle rolled his eyes, but still tossed out, “Get on it, Butters.”

With four clicks of drumsticks, the low thrum of a bassline, and Stan’s voice guiding him, Tweek joined in. As each song turned into another, Tweek’s anxiety began to dissolve. They were a group. They were a _force._ And they were fucking _good._ Although a part of Tweek was still in panic mode, as it always was, he _almost_ believed that they were going to be just fine.

No Hollywood fashion fucker was going to come between them and their music.

 

* * *

 

To Tweek’s credit, he was only _ten_ minutes late to their meeting with the stylist that Wednesday. It wasn’t _his_ fault that he got stuck behind a slow driver, and that the drive-through line at Harbucks was so long, and it _also_ wasn’t his fault that the old lady in front of him at CVS decided to pay with a million coupons _and_ a check and just _totally_ throw off his day. So what if he’d left the house just a _tiny_ bit - okay, an hour - after he’d planned, and forgot that he needed to pick up his meds until he was a quarter of the way to their studio? It was just a fluke, those things _happened._

And, honestly, whoever this chick was who was trying to meddle in their personal style was lucky that he was even showing up at all.

Still, as soon as he entered the meeting room of their rehearsal space, shutting the door carefully behind him as if he were walking into a crowded lecture hall instead of a six-person gathering and there was some way that he could sneak in without being painfully obvious, Kyle, of _course,_ tutted a sarcastic remark under his breath and Stan, of _course,_ laughed, and the stylist...

Well. The stylist. Holy fucking shit, _this_ was their stylist?

Tweek was ready to defend his tardiness straight away, to plop down in a backwards straddle upon one of those uncomfortable folding chairs they’d set up in a circle and not listen to a word that this person, who had projected a series of detailed sketches depicting five faceless, male forms wearing all kinds of studs and bandannas and boots upon the large flat-screen television upon their studio wall, had to say. But, as soon as he _saw_ the person who was talking, Tweek stopped dead in his tracks.

The stylist wasn’t some waif-thin Rachel Zoe wannabe who looked like she subsisted on Harbucks iced coffee and cocaine. The stylist wasn’t even a chick at all.

He was… _damn._ Hot fucking _damn._ He was, if Tweek was being honest with himself, the hottest guy he had _ever_ fucking seen in his entire life.

Tall, taller than Kyle, even, rather thin yet broad-shouldered, the man had perfect, tan skin, and jet black hair styled in a purposely-tousled undercut. The deep indigo of his _very_ expensive-looking jeans that Tweek couldn’t help but notice fit the slight contour of his ass just _perfectly_ , and the baby blue of his tucked-in button-up that, oh _man,_ was undone until the third button and exposed the top of his chest, brought out the similar color of his sharp, stoic eyes. Nevermind the fact that he was wearing obnoxious leather high-tops covered in studs and rhinestones, and an ostentatious, black-and-silver paisley suit coat on top of the ensemble that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a red carpet, if red carpets were obnoxious and tacky as all get out... it all fit him _well,_ so well.

Tweek already knew he hated him, even if he wanted to rip open all of the buttons on that designer shirt, yank down his pants, and find out what kind of bougie-ass underwear this guy was wearing before putting his mouth on this dude’s cock through what was probably buttery soft, expensive fabric, and pulling them off with his teeth.

Who the hell did _this_ fucker think he was, coming in trying to change shit, and if their stylist was _going_ to be a man, why couldn’t he at _least_ had been some overweight, tired old queen instead of the fucking _adonis_ Tweek saw standing there? Even his _voice,_ coming from that perfect, full mouth of his, was hot - he was droning on in a nasal, somewhat lisping, yet deep, commanding, and, somehow, oddly pleasant voice about the wonders of fashion to Tweek’s four mostly-disinterested-looking bandmates.

Unsmiling, the man clicked a remote, which displayed upon the screen a publicity shot of the band in all of their collective, grungy glory. “And, nothing about your collective look is cohesive at all. And, I… oh.” He stopped. He turned. And, he stared. Tweek wished he could say that his stomach didn’t drop out, that he didn’t feel a swirling coil of arousal deep in his belly, and that his heart didn’t pound against his ribcage when those icy blue eyes met his own, but, if he did, it’d be a bald-faced lie. “You’re, um. You’re Tweek,” he said, slowly.

“Y…” Tweek coughed, finding his voice caught in his throat. “Yeah?” The word came out higher, lighter than he’d anticipated or wanted to sound. Out of habit, Tweek’s hand found its way into his mane of unruly blond hair, and he twisted a lock tight around his forefinger, tugging slightly.

“I…” The man ran his hand through his own, perfectly-coiffed hair, his lips turning up a bit at the corners in the smallest hint of a bashful smile. “It’s just, I’m…” He was looking at the floor now, and even though it didn’t seem like this person, with his impeccable posture and serious expression, was one to ever get embarrassed, his cheeks reddened in an unmistakable blush. “Okay, it’s... I’m actually a really big fan of yours,” he continued, “I read your interview with The Advocate and what you said about queer representation in rock was… yeah, it was good, insightful. And you can really, um, shred?”

The guy lifted his eyebrow, and with the way that he was looking at Tweek, trailing his eyes up, down, and across the entirety of Tweek’s body like he was positively _ravenous,_ it was more than obvious to Tweek that the stylist wasn’t just checking out his clothes.

It was already torture for Tweek to force himself to wrench his gaze away, to pretend that he either didn’t notice, or didn’t care about the way this gorgeous creature was blatantly undressing him with his eyes. If Tweek had met this guy in a bar, he’d have him on his knees - or vice versa, depending on whatever he was into - within the hour. But, as it were, he was here to fuck everything up, and Tweek felt a rush of anger far greater than his feelings of arousal.

Clearing his throat, he pulled on his hair, and tried his best to sound as rude as he could. “Thanks, and who the hell are you?”

Tweek knew who he was, at least why he was _there._ He didn’t need to ask, but he didn’t want to give this guy the allusion of him being okay with this entire clusterfuck of a situation. Even if the sexual tension hung thick enough in the air to turn the room into a goddamn sauna, Tweek _couldn’t_ give into that, no _way._

“This is our _‘celebrity stylist,’_ ” said Kyle, miserably.

Butters, on the other hand, was beaming. “He’s doin’ some collaboration thing with Kylie Jenner!”

Tweek didn’t pay attention to Butters’ praise. “Oh, you’re the guy who’s trying, gah! Trying to change all of our shit,” Tweek barked, flippantly.

“Play nice, Tweek,” Token warned.

“Craig Tucker,” said the stylist, holding out his hand. Against his better judgment, Tweek took it. Craig’s hands were large, and soft, and Tweek wanted to lace their fingers together and pull him into another room right then and there, but instead he tightened his grip enough to make the other man wince. Craig, however, didn’t pull away, but rather brought up his other hand to encase Tweek’s, and squeezed. Tweek bit his lip, thinking of where _else_ he’d want this Craig Tucker’s hands on his body. “Honestly, I was so excited to meet you and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of why I took this project,” said Craig, releasing his grasp with a final, deliberate handshake.

Tweek scowled. Or, at least, he _hoped_ he did. “So now we’re a _project?_ Come on, man!”

“Assignment. Case. Whatever,” droned Craig, sounding annoyed for but a moment before starting to gush like a dumb schoolgirl fan, “God, it’s just _so_ nice to meet you, Tweek, I saw you guys play when you opened for I Prevail in L.A., and you, heh. You guys rocked, especially _you.”_ Those eyes were on him again, and Tweek couldn’t help it - he yelped out a small _gah!_

“We were just the opener to the opener, really,” Stan said, trying, but failing to mask his pride under an air of humility, “This is gonna be the first tour that’s just _us._ But _thank_ you, dude!”

“It’s really, really nice to-“

“As if we, agh, as if _you_ could know how to dress a _rock_ band anyway,” Tweek snapped, ignoring the flushing heat upon his face, “We’re not, ack, I don’t know, Ariana Grande, we’re not gonna wear some bullshit f-fucking feathers or something and-“

“Really.” Instantly, Craig’s demeanor changed. Pursing his lips into an ugly, haughty twist, he squared his hands upon his hips, puffed out his chest, and his eyes narrowed into a glare that held zero trace of his previous flirtation. His voice rose in pitch, and took a rougher edge as he stared Tweek down as if he smelled bad, and quickly began to list everything that was wrong with the other man. “You’re wearing $15.99 Payless Chuck Taylor knockoffs. You’ve been walking on the backs of your 2009 Buckle jeans and they’re all shredded in the wrong places, like the _hem,_ and you missed a button on your dime a dozen Calvin Klein shirt that any moron with access to a Macy’s owns. In fact, the only positive aspect of your _ensemble_ is that leather jacket, and your hair, but it’s lost on you because the rest of your _look,”_ Craig heaved a dramatic sigh, and flicked his wrist, “If we can call it that, is downright pedestrian, and you’re lucky that you’re so talented because there is nothing else about you that sets you apart from your average, college cover band guitarist. Shall I go on, or let my portfolio speak for itself?”

“I… _agh!”_ Tweek opened and shut his mouth a few times, feeling his face turn red for an entirely different reason. “I….” Gingerly, he crossed the room, and sat down, legs and arms crossed.

He could fight back. He fucking _could,_ if he wanted to, right? He was just choosing not to. Totally. And how in the hell did Craig know how old Tweek’s jeans were? It wasn’t like Tweek was asked to dress up for this meeting! _But…_ Tweek glanced down at his shirt. It was buttoned unevenly, _again._ It was wrinkled. His jeans had a mustard stain on the thigh, and there was a rip on the side of his shoe - that, yes, was from Payless - through which he could see the white of his crew sock.

He guessed he could at least listen to what this incredibly unpleasant, entirely sexy specimen of a man had to say before he ran his mouth any further.

“That’s what I thought.” Craig condescendingly popped his tongue, and it was business as usual, as he clicked over to more of his concept sketches, peppered with photos of fabric swatches, pieces of clothing, and pictures of other celebrities. “Now. I’m picturing like… Like an Avenged Sevenfold kind of deal, but younger. Current. Out with the Affliction shit, in with vintage, with a grunge-punk-McQueen feel. Avenged Sevenfold meets...” he paused, tapped on his chin with one of his long, manicured fingers, and grinned all smug and beautiful, “Meets Born-This-Way-era-Lady Gaga.”

“Aw, neato, I love Lady Gaga!” Butters exclaimed.

Kyle, however, was far from impressed, the mention of the other band enough to make him lean back in his chair with arms crossed and a sour expression on his face. “Avenged Sevenfold wears t-shirts too, though.”

“Aw, not this shit again,” whined Stan, pinching his nose, “Don’t bring them into this, please.”

Kyle’s voice rose to a near shout. “Avenged Sevenfold doesn’t-”

Stan cut him off. “Oh my _god,_ dude, I told you-”

“Raaagh!” Tweek screeched, bunching the edge of his crookedly-buttoned shirt tight in his fist. He was loud enough to command all attention. “Everybody, nnngh, everybody _stop_ talking about Avenged fucking Sevenfold!”

There was a pause, Craig watching the group with the slightest hint of concerned amusement, until Kyle muttered, “...Yeah, well, they wear t-shirts.”

“It is so much more than a simple _t-shirt,_ Mr. Broflovski,” Craig sighed, “It’s a look, it’s uniformity without conformity, it’s cohesion and its…. And apparently it’s another fucking _interruption.”_

The door had opened with a loud bang against the wall. Kenny, hauling in some equipment, was humming to himself, oblivious to the surroundings, until Craig cleared his throat. Kenny must’ve thought it was one of the band members, his freckled face breaking into a crooked smile as he said, “Hey guys! She’s all fixed, Token. Should be good to go and… Oh. Damn.” Craig didn’t look impressed, but Kenny certainly did. Tweek rolled his eyes - Kenny was his friend, but sometimes he wanted to punch the fucker. He swore to god if Kenny tried to make a move, he probably fucking _would..._

“Hel _lo._ Kenny, I’m with the band,” he said, regarding Craig with an arch of an eyebrow, and a bite of his lip.

And, of course he did. Tweek clenched his fist. He was unsure if he was more upset with Kenny for hitting on him, or himself for _being_ upset about it. He just met the guy, and they were assholes to each other, and so what if he was hot, Kenny could just go ahead and _have_ him, just like he had everyone, and Craig would totally go for it, they could just fuck backstage and- “Hngh!” Tweek squeaked out an involuntary, frustrated grunt.

“With the band, huh,” replied Craig wryly, looking at Kenny with a stony expression of disinterest, “Yep. Same.”

Tweek felt himself let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Ouch,” Stan muttered under his breath, elbowing Kyle in the side.

“Anyway, Token, I got your bass all sorted out, and who’s this,” Kenny said, coolly, as if the rejection had no effect on him.

“The stylist,” spat Kyle, sounding even more bitter than before.

“Oooh.” Kenny fluttered his eyelashes, exaggeratedly, at Craig. _God,_ their stage-manager-slash-head-roadie could be so fucking embarrassing sometimes. He was a good friend, a good guy, but definitely didn’t care about making a fool out of himself. “Got any hot tips for me, sir? Any-”

Craig cleared his throat, and glowered.

“Okay. Okay, forget I asked,” Kenny said, holding his palms defensively in front of him. Tweek knew Kenny was going to stick around, even though he most certainly did _not_ need to be there; and, sure enough, he pulled up a chair right next to Tweek, listening in rapt attention as Craig went over his plans for the band.

Save for the fact that Craig was adamant that Kyle cut his hair, and that Tweek wear smudgy, smoky eyeliner in performances, interviews, and publicity shots - ideas which both caused small shouting matches between the band, Craig, and even Kenny, who Tweek supposed joined in out of sheer amusement - Craig’s concepts for their outfits on Friday’s gig weren’t _awful._ Admittedly, Butters got off the easiest, meant to be dressed in jeans and a cut-off tank top with a beanie atop his head, and a flannel tied around his waist, but Tweek’s wasn’t half bad either. His favorite green button-down that he wore for a number of their performances was to be replaced with one that was similar, but more fitted and a bit darker with, of course, his leather jacket, and tight, ripped, black jeans tucked into studded leather boots.

“The green will bring out your eyes,” Craig had said, gaze boring into Tweek, “And the eyeliner, you’ll look….” He’d cleared his throat, then, almost as if to catch himself before saying something he would regret, but what Craig wasn’t able to do was stop himself from licking his lips. The motion was ever so slight, but it was definitely _there,_ his pink tongue sweeping along the fullness of his lower lip, leaving it glistening and wet. “It’ll suit you.”

For the rest of their meeting, it felt like Tweek had already put on those tight jeans. He could only imagine how painfully obvious he’d be around Craig once he switched into his new look.

“I will meet with each of you, individually, prior to your show on Friday, to ensure that everything is up to par,” said Craig, all business, to close out the meeting. Then, with a pause, and a tiny smile, he added, “I’m totally gonna watch after, too. I’ve never got the chance to see you guys on your home turf and I don’t get out to Denver often so…” he glanced at Tweek, “So, watch for me.”

Barely removing his gaze from Tweek, Craig gave a curt nod, and a short goodbye before walking out the door.

Stan and Kyle immediately started a hushed argument, while Butters and Token went straight to prepping their instruments for practice. Tweek didn’t realize that he was staring at the closed door, as if waiting for Craig to return, until Kenny poked him in the shoulder.

“He wants to screw you,” Kenny said, matter-of-fact and far too loud.

“What! N-no he doesn’t,” Tweek stammered, pretending that it wasn’t completely obvious from both of them, “He’s, agh, he’s a prick.”

“He super absolutely _does_ ,” said Kenny, “Guy couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

“ _Gah,_ shut up! He’s just a fan, and it’s weird. _Weird,_ man!”

“Yep, keep telling yourself that. Mind if I listen today?”

“If you, ngh, stop being so… agh!” Tweek threw his hands up in slight annoyance and, as they played, Kenny bobbing his head along to the music while fiddling around on his phone, Tweek couldn’t keep his mind off of all those looks, the handshake, the tense, charged arguments...

 _Ugh. Whatever._ Craig was nothing but a pretentious fashion douche with a stick up his ass. Tweek totally hated him, and _absolutely_ couldn’t _wait_ to be alone with him on Friday.

 

* * *

 

“Aaaaaand… Scene,” Craig said, sounding as amused as Tweek had ever heard him, or at least _some_ kind of emotion that _might_ have passed for amused with the likes of Craig Tucker, asshole celebrity stylist. He finished smudging the sooty, black kohl eyeliner onto Tweek’s lower lashline with a flourish, and Tweek couldn’t deny that he didn’t want him to take his hands away. He was _adamant_ about not wearing makeup, at first, and although he’d never admit it to anyone else, it was mostly because the thought of having anything near his eye made Tweek squirm. So many things could happen… Craig’s hand could slip, and Tweek could be blinded forever, and what if there was some kind of _bacteria_ in there? But, after Craig patiently, but monotonously assured Tweek that everything had been thoroughly sanitized, and the statistical chances of injury, or even irritation, from wearing eyeliner were slim to none, especially given that Tweek had perfect eyesight and didn’t have to wear contacts, Tweek finally acquiesced to let Craig paint his eyes.

Craig had been gentle. He hadn’t been sarcastic, or short with Tweek, or anything like the Craig Tucker of their meeting three days ago. Tweek wondered if perhaps he’d jumped to conclusions too quickly, if perhaps his freakouts about the changes to the band hadn’t been quite rational…. But, when were they ever? Tweek often felt guilty after an anxiety attack, especially if he displaced his nerves and fear onto another person.

Tweek didn’t _hate_ Craig. He didn’t really even _know_ him, and Tweek had to try and stifle the part of himself that desperately wanted to get to know this beautiful enigma of a person. Moop would be leaving on tour next week… when would Tweek find time to go out with this dude? And, even if Craig wanted to bang him, or _whatever,_ it was probably just some hero-worship fanboy thing, anyway. Someone of Craig’s caliber wouldn’t want to get mixed up with somebody like Tweek who, while undoubtedly talented, he _knew_ that about himself, was still a disorganized, anxious mess. Not exactly a catch.

But, no, he didn’t _hate_ Craig.

He may have been a hired professional, but Craig really _was_ just doing his job with those comments the other day, and doing it well. Throughout the entire process of approving Tweek’s outfit - Tweek was both glad and disappointed that he didn’t have to change in front of the other man - and applying his makeup, there was something calming and patient about Craig that put Tweek, who would usually be pacing the length of his dressing room or chain-smoking backstage by that point, at ease.

Plus, Craig was so close to him, his knobbly knees bumping up against Tweek’s while he worked on his face; with his eyes closed, all Tweek could pay attention to or think about were the way their legs lined up, and the fact that Craig had shoved his foot, again clad in those same obnoxious sneakers, between Tweek’s own, presumably to steady himself. And, there was the fact that Craig kept a loose grip on his chin, and rested the pinky of his working hand upon Tweek’s face, and that he smelled _awesome,_ and that it would’ve been super easy for Tweek to just kiss him, to break the professional contract that Craig seemed to steadfastly follow and do what he thought they _both_ wanted to do… it wasn’t fucking _fair_ , at all.

Tweek only hoped that stepping onto the stage turned-on as _fuck_ and the possibility of seeing Craig in the audience wouldn’t screw with his ability to play.

“Check it out,” Craig said, and spun Tweek around.

Tweek knew he wasn’t an unattractive guy, but he didn’t know he could look like _this_ , this _good,_ this...

“Huh,” he breathed, “I look fuckin’ badass.”

Instead of the eyeliner making Tweek’s eyes look smaller, like what happened with many other men he’d seen, Craig had done something to make his eyes appear big, and mysterious instead of nervous, and greener than he’d ever seen. Combined with his clothes, which were much more comfortable than he’d imagined, and even _felt_ expensive, and his hair, which Craig had combed, then tousled into purposeful, chunky spikes instead of the haphazard, fuzzy waves that typically fanned around his head - during which Tweek had grit his teeth to keep from moaning out, the sensation of Craig’s fingers in his hair almost more than he could handle - it all really, _truly_ made Tweek look and feel like a rockstar.

“See? Is that _sooo_ awful?” Craig cocked an eyebrow.

“No…” Tweek said, slowly, before both broke out into a grin. Their eyes met in the mirror and, as if seeing each other look into each other’s eyes through the glass instead of right up in each other’s faces, as it would’ve been while Craig fixed his makeup, provided enough a barrier so that they felt comfortable enough to not look away. Through the mirror, all of the blatant stares they shot each other in the meeting came rushing right back to Tweek, and he saw his own eyes darken, saw his lips part in a tiny, panting gasp, and he became painfully aware of the _thunk_ of his own heartbeat as he noticed that Craig did the same. The other man’s eyes softened, practically glossed over as his tongue darted out to lick his lips, and Tweek saw Craig lean in behind him, closer, before he felt hot breath against his ear.

“No?” Craig asked, close to him, voice husky and almost mocking, “Not terrible? Not stupid? Not _girly,_ Mister _I’m-Never-Gonna-Wear-Makeup?”_

Every nerve in Tweek’s back stirred and tingled as a shiver shimmied its way from his ear all the way to the base of his spine, and snaked around, to the _front,_ proving that, damn, _yeah,_ these pants were tight, and _yes,_ it was more than obvious what this guy did to him. “Okay. O _kay,_ man, I give in, I look really good,” said Tweek.

“Told you I know my shit. You didn’t have to be so goddamn rude about it the other day,” Craig breathed with a sharp, palpable edge of desire to his voice.

“Yeah, well.” Tweek held his gaze for what felt like minutes, but was probably just seconds, until he shook his head, nervously, and looked away. “O-okay, I don’t have long, don’t you gotta go do Butters now?”

Craig emitted a solitary sniff of a chuckle through his nose, and shifted back, just a little, breaking their almost-contact. “Do Butters, hm? Think I’ll pass. Not my type.”

“Agh! Um, _style_ Butters? Or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Craig said. Tweek briefly noticed a stony expression return to his face, before he rose to leave, without a goodbye. Craig opened the door, just a sliver, but, after a moment where his shoulders tensed, then relaxed, he shut it just as quickly. Even though Tweek, unable to move, watched the whole process in the mirror, he nevertheless spun his chair around the moment he heard the click of the door’s lock.

Craig, with his back pressed against the door, and his hands clasped upon either side of his upper arms, drawing him awkwardly into himself, almost looked like any other fan, right then. Sure, he was still beyond gorgeous, and yes, those shoes were still ridiculous, but, other than that, he was attired in fitted, grey jeans with strategically placed rips upon the knees and thighs, and a Moop t-shirt from probably… _five years ago?_ _It couldn’t have been_ that _long by now,_ Tweek thought, with cut-off sleeves hugging his body in a way that left just enough to the imagination… it was difficult to think that _this_ was the same important, lavishly-dressed person who unleashed all of those biting remarks just three days ago.

Craig, chewing on his lower lip, looked at the floor, and then square at Tweek. He cleared his throat and then, confidently, said, “It’s not just your playing that sets you apart.”

Tweek didn’t know what he was expecting Craig to say, but it certainly wasn’t _that._ “What?”

“What I said the other day, that nothing sets you apart from anyone else. I feel like I owe you an apology,” he continued, “It’s not just your playing. I mean, you’re good. You’re really, really good, but there’s something about you... You’re unique, and _very_ attractive, like so, _so_ fuckin’….” Craig hesitated, let out a shaky breath, and shook his head. “From what I’ve read, you’re also quite intelligent and… Yeah.” Letting his arms down with a small shrug, and keeping his eyes focused upon Tweek, Craig crossed the room and primly sat upon the old, cluttered sofa against the wall. “You're cool. I’m sorry for saying that, we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Jesus, I…” Tweek let out a surprised, sudden giggle. There were a lot of things he could say. He could tell Craig that he was sorry, too, or he could echo the attractive sentiment, and then some, or, fuck, he could even throw caution to the wind and ask the guy out, or do something real crazy like kiss him; but, Tweek being the way he was, the way he _knew_ and _hated_ that he was, he blurted out, “I hate doing all those interviews, man!”

It was then that Craig finally smiled, a genuine grin of teeth that Tweek was surprised to see were neither blinding white, nor perfectly straight, but a bit crooked, one of his pointy canines overlapping the tooth next to it. So he _did_ have a flaw, after all… but, for some reason, that smile made Tweek’s chest flutter. It was, like the man it belonged to, the sexiest smile Tweek had seen in a long time.

“What do you mean?” asked Craig.

“The interviews. You said, hngh, that I was articulate, or something? I _hate_ them,” Tweek said, words tumbling out of his mouth quicker than he could process, “It’s _way_ too much pressure. They send me on all those fucking things and, agh, I _know_ it’s just ‘cause I’m out and don’t give a shit about it. Like, I’m, ngh, just a musician who’s gay, I’m not like a _gay musician_ or whatever, so I always feel like the interview’s gonna go tits-up and I’ll say something stupid, a-and _then_ the whole queer community or whatever gonna think I’m some kinda, ah, that I suck - I _suck,_ man! - because I’m not a good ambassador. Not that I wanted to even _be_ one at _all_ in the freakin’ first place, man!”

“Yeah. I feel you,” Craig said, softly, “I’m just into clothes, and I like dick. I’m not some kind of role model.”

Tweek paused, and let out a small chuckle. “Honestly, agh, I’d never heard of you at all before Wednesday.”

Craig grinned. “No shit.”

“But a-anyway, then _you_ said you liked what I had to say in that fucking _awful_ Advocate interview and,” Tweek paused, and gulped in a large breath. When he spoke again, he was surprised to hear his own voice coming out softer, gentler. _Calmer_. “Thanks, Craig.”

Craig simply smiled, and blinked, slowly.

At some point, during his rambling, Tweek rose to his feet, and ended up awkwardly hovering near the arm of the sofa, close enough that he could smell whatever probably-expensive, exquisitely intoxicating cologne that clung to, radiated off of Craig. His eyes fluttered shut for one short, involuntary moment, as he breathed in, deeply. “It means a lot, coming from a fan. Not that you’re, gah, not that you're _just_ a fan, I mean, you… you know what I mean, right?”

When Tweek opened his eyes, Craig was still staring at him, mouth open a fraction, and pupils wide. “You missed one,” he said, slowly, “One of your buttons.”

“Shit, man, I _always_ do tha-”

“Let me,” Craig murmured, rising to his feet.

Craig’s hands lingered on the soft fabric of Tweek’s button-up for but a cursory moment. He didn’t fasten it, and, before Tweek could even process it, Craig’s hand was brushing up against the small, open expanse of stomach that the absent button provided, right above the waistband of Tweek’s jeans, and Tweek’s mouth was on Craig’s.

Quick, hot, and deep from the get-go, their tongues and lips clashed together all wet and frantic like they were channeling all of the frustration, all of the now-broken tension of their first meeting into that kiss. Craig, although so tall that Tweek had to stand on the balls of his feet to kiss him, although he carried with him such a strong, everyday presence that he was almost imposing, was allowing Tweek to lead the kiss. No, not allowing - with the way small, low mewls were catching in the back of his throat every time Tweek pulled away, and then went back in to dip his tongue into Craig’s mouth that tasted like he tried to cover up cigarette smoke with spearmint gum, or clasped Craig’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled, gently, Craig was _asking_ for Tweek to take charge, of everything.

The sudden, surprising, yet fucking _amazing_ thought of this uptight, put-together man on his knees, begging and unraveling underneath him flooded Tweek’s mind, and made his hips snap forward and his hands gather the fabric of Craig’s t-shirt, his band’s shirt, into his tight-clenched fists as he practically slammed their bodies together, leaving not even a centimeter of space between them. He felt it, against his stomach, how hard Craig was, and surely Craig did, too, against his thigh, as the taller of the two full-on moaned into Tweek’s mouth, and circled his hips in a languid grind against Tweek’s body.

Somehow, Tweek didn’t know when or how because they hadn’t halted their frenzied kissing and rutting, they’d ended up on the floor, Craig’s back pressed against the couch, his hands slipping under Tweek’s shirt to lightly scratch his back, to thumb his nipples, and Tweek in a straddle, grasping desperately at Craig’s hair, which was just as soft and full as it looked as they moved against each other through layers of fabric and denim. _Too_ many layers, _too_ many clothes, and Craig must’ve had the same thought because he reached for Tweek’s fly, his deft fingers undoing each button without hesitation, and slipped his hand inside. Craig moaned in appreciation against Tweek’s neck as he thumbed the head of his cock, which Tweek knew was already leaking.

Tweek, however, froze. It wasn’t that it didn’t feel good - oh, _fuck,_ did it ever feel good. It was amazing, _so_ amazing that he had to gnaw into his own lip to keep himself from losing it right then and there, it was just… What was this? What was he _doing?_ He wasn’t like Stan, who would get drunk and rail sketchy groupies after Kyle decided he’d rather go to bed instead of stay up and drink with him, or fuck him, or whatever it was those two drama queens did together. He wasn’t one of those assholes who ended up a blind item in a gossip blog’s post about skanky celebrities, or, worse, had his face blown up all over TMZ. If he did this, would… _shit._ Shit, shit _shit, could_ he do this? “Wait!” gasped Tweek, and pulled away, gaze still focused upon Craig’s swollen, wet mouth.

God. God _damn_ it. He _wanted_ to do this. He wanted that beautiful mouth everywhere, _anywhere_. Tweek’s heart fluttered nervously, while his cock throbbed. Craig thumbed it again, slowly, on the head.

“What?” Craig asked in a breathy moan, keeping his grip on Tweek’s erection, but halting his movements.

“I’m not the kinda guy who goes around, having, ah, having sex with his fans, man,” Tweek said, rushed and equally as breathy as Craig.

Craig flashed that smile at him again, his _real_ smile, and Tweek, unable to help himself, yanked Craig’s head backwards, by the hair, exposing the long line of his throat. He licked, in one languid swoop, from the bit of collarbone that jutted out from Craig’s t-shirt, to the sensitive spot just behind the ear. Craig moaned, low and growling enough for Tweek to feel it in his own chest. “Am I just a fan?” asked Craig, against his ear, returning a lick of his own. Tweek realized he was thrusting his hips, slowly, into Craig’s hand. “I want you to fuck me, and keep your clothes on,” rumbled Craig.

 _“Fuck,”_ Tweek moaned, “You sure you wanna do this?”

“Fuck me up,” was Craig’s reply, his grip on Tweek’s cock tightening, his strokes speeding up, and Tweek wanted nothing more than to do just that.

Tweek breathed in, and then out, in a shaky almost-moan. He was still nervous. This was a lot to process, for Tweek. He was thinking with his dick, that wasn’t _smart,_ it was impulsive and he’d tried so hard to _stop_ making those stupid, impulsive decisions he used to make when he was younger, he was…

 _Fuck it,_ Tweek thought.

He was _horny as shit,_ he was since he first saw the guy, and why the _fuck_ would he turn this down? He’d be stupid as hell not to take this chance while it presented itself, even if this was just a one-off thing, especially if they were safe.

_Fuck it._

They kissed, again, as Tweek reached down, squeezing the prominent bulge in Craig’s jeans. Holy fuck, he was huge… Tweek hoped he didn’t expect him to _take_ that thing before a show - he _did_ say he wanted Tweek to fuck _him_ , but Tweek could never quite be sure of anything. “How do you want it?” he asked, nerves creeping into his voice.

“I’ll bottom,” volunteered Craig, simply, like he was saying he was going to run to the market, “Unless you really want to.”

“ _Agh,_ oh, thank… _hah,_ fuck yeah,” said Tweek, relieved, “I like it, ngh, either way but you’re kinda…” Tweek palmed Craig’s cock and laughed, nervously, while Craig smirked, as if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard _that_ line. “Are you _sure?”_

“Extremely sure.”

“I just don’t normally do this, I… heh.” Tweek stopped touching Craig and, with a peck to his lips, scrambled off of him, to rummage around in his bureau. He quickly took note of the clock on the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that they _probably_ had enough time. “Okay. Lemme get a condom.”

“You don’t fuck your fans, yet you keep that stuff in your dressing room.” There was an amused, sarcastic quality to Craig’s monotone that made Tweek either want to burst out laughing, kiss him, punch him, or all three.

“Well, agh, I dunno! S-someone might need some a-and,” Tweek stammered, then moaned - Craig had undone his pants. He’d undone his pants, and he was _touching himself,_ shamelessly, languidly moving the foreskin - _fuck me running, he’s uncut, too?_ _This guy just can’t get any more perfect_ , thought Tweek of his cock up and down as he watched Tweek fumble around like an idiot. Tweek about face-planted in his rush to get back onto the floor, lube and a strip of condoms in hand, and Craig, watching him with his tongue between his teeth, snickered. “Or something? Whatever, shut up,” Tweek said, ripping a condom off of the strip, and pushing his pants down just enough that Craig could see _everything._ “I have thirty minutes, so we gotta make this quick.”

“I can do that,” Craig intoned, narrowing his eyes as if to incite an argument, in a way that reminded Tweek of how he’d criticized him earlier that week. It was look that, curiously, made Tweek’s mouth water with desire. “If _you_ can.”

“Take off your pants,” Tweek snapped at Craig much like he had in their meeting, “Hands and knees. Get your ass in the air.”

“Mmhm,” said Craig, and did exactly what was requested of him.

His legs were bone-skinny, and his ass wasn’t much to write home about when he wasn’t wearing those designer jeans, but it was Craig’s eagerness, the way he blatantly, clearly _needed_ this, the way he _obeyed,_ that made Craig Tucker, spreading his cheeks on Tweek’s dressing floor while wearing nothing but a cut-up, old t-shirt of Tweek’s very own band, just… just, _god,_ the fucking _hottest_ thing Tweek had seen, in his whole life, _ever,_ hotter than he’d even _imagined_ in any daydream, hotter than the filthiest porn that Tweek would surreptitiously watch on his phone, headphones in, in their tour bus’ bathroom while he jacked off as if his idiot bandmates (and Kenny) weren’t just a few feet away from him.

And Tweek was going to fuck him, he was going to be _inside_ of him and, _Christ,_ he was going to _wreck_ him. Holy _fuck_ was he ever.  

With shaking hands, he wasted no time sheathing his cock with the thin, slippery layer of latex, and squirting a line of lube onto his cock. He shut the bottle, and set it next to him, only to pick it up again not a second later. If they had to be quick, Tweek was going to make this as good as possible for _both_ of them. He hoped Craig hadn’t noticed his tiny yelp when he accidentally poured out a little _too_ much, but when he tossed the bottle aside and ran his fingers along the crack of Craig’s ass, taking a couple moments to rub his fingers against his entrance, relaxing him, _feeling_ him, and, slowly, carefully nudged a finger inside, Craig was pushing back against his hand, whining so eager and desperate that Tweek didn’t even give a fuck if he’d embarrassed himself with one of his tics during sex.

He curled his finger, and Craig _yelped._ Tweek didn’t think that man could make such a noise. He wanted to hear it again, and again, to make him scream, to make him cry out his name and never fucking _forget_ it. Without hesitation, he added another finger and kneaded, moving in small circles against Craig’s prostate, to which Craig buried his face into his arms with a sobbing mewl.

It was Tweek’s turn to yelp. “Agh, a-are you ok? Am I doing this right?”

Craig moaned, “More, _please_ more.”

“A-are you sure, man? I don’t wanna-” Tweek was lying. He _did_ wanna. He wanted to tear Craig apart, but he was fucking _nervous_. He cursed his ever-present anxiety, cursed the fact that he was still trembling despite his cock bordering on painfully hard, and took another shaky gulp of air.

 _Fuck it,_ he remembered.

“I’m _sure,_ god damn it!” Craig snapped, head lifted up and back enough that he could shoot a glare square into Tweek’s eyes. His annoyed expression quickly changed into that of sheer, overwhelmed pleasure as Tweek pulled out two fingers and, slowly, inserted three.

They went in _too_ easy, easy enough for Tweek to fuck him, right off the bat, with his fingers, to slam in over and over and _over_ again, to press and rub against him, to make him quiver and shake and _beg,_ which he was doing, letting out little huffs of _yeah_ and _please_ and _more_ and _fuck me._ Tweek imagined this incredible guy laying in bed before coming to the show, stretching himself out with his fingers, or, oh _god_ , with a toy, and it was more than he could fucking _bear_ to think about; he _had_ to have him, had to be in him now-now- _fucking-now_. With his free hand, Tweek reached down to grab the crown of Craig’s hair, hoisting him up so he was back on all fours.

“You knew we were gonna do this,” he said, removing his hand, and ignoring Craig’s disappointed moan. He grabbed Craig’s bony hips, rougher than he’d intended, but what seemed to be just rough enough for Craig, who practically growled, and lined up his cock.“You’re so ready for me,” he groaned, and pressed a kiss to the back of Craig’s neck, all shiny and salty with sweat, and entered him, slowly.

“Mhmm,” Craig moaned, “Knew I _wanted_ to do this. That’s, _oh,_ oh _fuck_ that’s good, that’s _good,_ c’mon _.”_ He was panting, eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open as Tweek finally bottomed out inside him.

Tweek wanted to stay there, barely moving. He wanted to wrap his hand around Craig’s neck and whisper filthy things into his ear and find out everything he wanted, every fucked-up fantasy in the deepest parts of this secret slut masquerading as a fashion designer’s brain, all the while circling his hips in the scantest of motions, moving inside of him so impossibly slow and deep... and _this_ , this desire to _take,_ was something Tweek _himself_ didn’t even know he had in him. Having somebody underneath him, at least like _this,_ was a concept that was foreign to him until it quite literally showed up naked on his dressing room floor. But, _time_ , there wasn’t enough _fucking_ time and, so, gritting his teeth and digging his calloused fingertips into Craig’s hipbones, he began to move, his thrusts frantic and rough after only a few experimental, more shallow ones. Craig didn’t mind. Craig didn’t mind at all, and Tweek knew, the moment the stylist threw his head back, wiggled his ass backwards, and moaned his name, that he’d find _some_ way, come hell or high water, to see him again.

“Next time I’m gonna - oh, _fuck_ , man - I’m gonna take my time, hnng, fuck you nice and slow and taste every _inch_ of you and,” Tweek panted, barely paying attention to the words that were coming out of his mouth, “Fuck you’re so _hot,_ so, hnnn, all f-fucking broken down like this, getting fucked so,” he snapped his hips, “So,” again, “Fucking. Hard.”

“Mmm, god, next time,” Craig moaned, reaching between his legs to desperately grasp at his aching cock, only for Tweek to grasp him by the wrist, and wrench his hand backwards, pinning it, by the wrist, in the small of Craig’s back where his shirt was riding up.

“No,” Tweek snarled, neither knowing nor caring what came over him in that moment, “Not til I say.”

Craig whimpered all low and rumbling, his head moving in a frantic up and down nod - _yes._

“Yeah, next time and, ngh, and the time after that,” Tweek growled, pounding his hips, harder, deeper, with each word. Wet, sharp smacking sounds from where Craig’s skinny ass, turning pink from their unrestrained, primal _fucking_ , collided with Tweek’s pelvis, from Tweek’s balls thwacking rhythmically against Craig’s body with each in-and-out thrust, cracked through the air like lightning. “And after that, and after, fuck, after _that.”_

“Promise?” Craig’s baritone voice cracked in a pleading whine.

“I fucking promise, I fucking _promise,”_ Tweek said, with a quick bite to Craig’s earlobe, “Fucking swear.” If they kept this up, the way they were doing it, Tweek was going to come, _so_ soon. He reminded himself that it was the point, to get off, to release all of his pre-performance jitters, to make up for all of that _tension_ on Wednesday and that if - no, _when -_ they saw each other again, he... “I’m gonna fuckin’, _nnnngh,_ wreck you,” he whispered.

Craig volleyed back a sob, and a moan, and hushed, beautiful, filthy words of his own. “Next time I’m gonna suck you off, I want to _so_ bad,” he said. On his back, his fist balled, tightly, like he was trying to make himself hold on. “Wanted to get on my knees for you the first time I saw you. I’d do it, too, right in front of everyone if you asked. I wanted, _mmh,_ wanted to blow you right there.”

“Oh _fuck,”_ groaned Tweek, “You’re so fucking, hnnng, I wanted to fuck you when I saw you, wanted you on your knees, to, ngh, shut you the fuck up.”

“Please.” Craig shimmied into him, meeting each of Tweek’s thrusts with a roll of his hips, as if he was trying to drive them as close together, as deep as possible.

“Wanted you to beg,” Tweek choked out.

“God, _please,”_ answered Craig, his voice rising to an emotional near-shout, a tone far from his typical demeanor, in the best way possible. “Want you to fuck my mouth next time,” Craig said through a clenched jaw, “Wanna choke on it, on your- _god,_ harder.”

Tweek didn’t think he could even go any harder. He noticed his bangs were sticking to his face, and stilled, for just a moment, distracted by fleeting panic about whether or not this experience, as mind-blowingly amazing as it was, was fucking up his eyeliner. A pleading, desperate moan erupted from Craig as he looked over his shoulder, and met Tweek’s eyes with a stare that plainly said, _don’t stop._

“You, nngh, you have a filthy mouth,” Tweek observed, with a grin and the best kiss to Craig’s lips that he could manage, given their odd angle, before dropping Craig’s wrist, gripping tight on either side of his hips, and _pounding._

“Harder, c’mon,” panted Craig, “Fuck me.”

“Should come in your filthy mouth.” There was barely a rhythm to their fucking, anymore, both men erratically grinding, bucking against each other. Inhibition was _long_ lost, replaced by nothing but a need for release.

“Holy shit, yeah, c’mon,” Craig said, desperately, “Please, I _want_ it.”

“I-I’m, _agh,_ I’m gonna f-fuckin’ _come,”_ stammered Tweek, because that begging, coming from _him,_ that _did it,_ and he fucking couldn’t, couldn’t _stand_ it, who the fuck did he even think he was, this Craig _fucking_ Tucker, celebrity _fucking_ stylist, this fashion _bitch_ , coming into Tweek’s _life_ like this, acting all sweet and patient and making him look beautiful and making him feel _free_ and turning his world upside down with lust in just one night?

How fucking dare he have the _nerve_.

Tweek didn’t hate Craig. Tweek _wanted_ him. No, more than that... Tweek knew, already, that he _needed_ him.

“Do it in my mouth,” Craig breathed. His back heaved, up and down, with each panting, rhythmic breath.

“Do it on your _face,_ that’s what you, nnnngh, deserve, tryin’ to, nghh, to change our- _fuck._ ” Tweek pulled out, quickly, ignoring the momentary twinge of regret that he couldn’t just stay like that forever, buried deep inside this most perfect person, since he was completely unable to ignore the urge for release, not for another second - and, well, because _stupid_ fucking _time,_ again. “Get up, get on your knees.”

The condom ended up somewhere in the couch cushions, probably, as Tweek flung it off, and Craig, looking up at him from his knees, with his mouth hanging open like a complete _slut,_ smiled so big, so purely blissful when Tweek grabbed him roughly by the hair. Tweek’s vision went hazy, and he closed his eyes, not on _purpose_ \- because, he wanted nothing but to see himself splattered all over this man’s snobby, _beautiful_ face - but because his entire body was seized with the electric-lighting zaps of one of the absolute best orgasms he’d _ever_ had and he could concentrate on nothing but that, and the sound of his own unrestrained moans and Craig’s, too, as Tweek came all over him in forceful spurts.

The room came into focus. He opened his eyes to Craig, eyes blown black with lust, clenching his hands on his thighs, all messy and used and gorgeous. He was shaking, his cockhead peeking out, aching red, from the darker sheath of his foreskin, and, with one of those trembling, tense hands, he reached out, almost as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it, to swipe across his cheeks and bring that same hand down to his, oh _god,_ he was jerking himself off _with my, oh sweet-jesus-_ fuck, _oh my god,_ Tweek thought.

“Fuck, that’s sexy,” rasped Tweek, before sinking down to the floor, next to Craig, and gently guiding him to a seated position, much like before, with his back against the sofa. “Let me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Craig’s temple, “Lemme do that, lemme make you come.”

“Yeah,” Craig hissed, hips bucking forward as Tweek took that beautiful cock in his hand, firmly, rhythmically pumping his wrist, “Yeah, _god,_ Tweek, I-”

Tweek cut him off, with his tongue inside of his cigarette-mint mouth, not giving a solitary _fuck_ about the mess on his face - in fact, it was an unexpected turn-on that made his chest swell with lust, kissing Craig after _that -_ and his free hand cradling his strong jaw, purposely rough with slight, scruffy grow-out. Feeling Craig ride out the waves of his own release, the way his cock throbbed in Tweek’s hand, and how he shook and trembled, the vibrations of his deep moans muffled into Tweek’s mouth as Craig sloppily, without abandon, returned the kiss… _god,_ it was good, it was almost like Tweek himself were coming again, just from causing someone else, causing _Craig_ in particular, to feel _that_ good.

They stayed like that, after Tweek absently wiped his hand off on Craig’s shirt - having at least _some_ subconscious sense to not dirty his brand new stage outfit - collapsed against each other, for but a brief few moments before the panic set in, and Tweek sprang to his feet, tearing about the dressing room like a whirlwind.

 _Pants up, pants_ zipped _, where’s my fucking_ jacket _oh-there-it-is, oh my fuck, I’m going to be late, I’m going to fucking get_ fired, _everybody will_ know, _fuckfuck_ fuck.

“Agh! Fuck!” His reflection almost, but not _quite_ betrayed what he’d just done. His hair was the same as before, like he’d never even had it styled, but his eyeliner was in tact, _but_ his face was flushed and a little sweaty, as was the small bit of exposed chest underneath his new shirt. Mercifully, there weren’t any _stains_ on him.

“Well,” Craig tossed out, casually, as the sound of a zipper followed, “I suppose your hair _is_ kind of your trademark, it can stay like that. At least your eyeliner survived. God, that was really… hey, what’s wrong, you’re shaking.” After quickly putting on his shoes, Tweek watched Craig saunter up behind him, slouching like he’d had all of the uptight _douchebag_ fucked out of him, and placed a comforting hand upon the small of Tweek’s back.

Tweek jumped, then relaxed into the touch, _then_ jumped again. “Eric said if i’m late again they’ll find someone else! Jesus, man! I’m gonna get fired, I’m gonna-”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t last _that_ long,” the other man quipped with a half-smile, “You’ve got a little over fifteen. He wouldn’t kick you out, anyway; he’s a dick, but he’s not stupid. Do you smoke? I’m gonna smoke. It _smells_ like smoke in here, so _someone_ does.” Somehow, Craig was hiding a metal cigarette case, and a lighter, in the front pocket of his tight pants. After lighting his own, he sat, long legs dangling just an inch or so from the carpeted floor, on the countertop of Tweek’s dressing table, and extended the case in his direction.

“Yeah, ah, yeah, okay.” Tweek stammered, accepting a cigarette, and fumbling with the lighter before Craig snatched it out of his hand, and produced a flame for Tweek to use. The first drag always calmed him down… he kind of hated that he smoked, because he was totally going to get cancer and die and _then_ where would the band be, but old habits, and all that. “And _you_ ,” he said, with an exhale, and a shaky grin, “You… heh, you’ve got… Wait. That was only fifteen minutes?”

Craig shrugged. “Felt longer. You were… Heh. It was really, _really_ good.” A few seconds passed, in which Tweek gave in, and leaned on the edge of the table, his hip pressed into Craig’s thigh. “What were you saying? I’ve got something?” Craig glanced down at his cigarette, then at an old beer bottle nearby on the vanity. With a shrug, he grabbed it, and tapped his excess ash into the opening.

Tweek felt his face go red. “Um, stuff all over your shirt.”

“What.” Craig’s jaw jutted out, and his lips pursed together, as he glanced down, and then, _finally_ then, he looked a little bit embarrassed. “Well, shit,” he said, taking a deep drag of smoke, “I guess I can buy another one, where’s merch?”

“It’s, ah…” Tweek smiled, while what was either a really stupid, or really _great_ idea popped into his head. He dropped the remainder of his cigarette - _damn,_ he’d gone through that one quickly - into the beer bottle, hearing a tiny sizzle as the scant amount of liquid in the bottom extinguished the embers, and rifled around in the pile of clothes he was wearing earlier. “Here,” he said, tossing what he was looking for in Craig’s direction. Craig caught it easily. “You’re, ah, so much taller than me but it’s a little big and it’ll, um, it’s my favorite shirt and… Yeah, y-you can wear this.” He was blushing furiously, he just _knew_ it, giving his t-shirt to a guy like he was in _high school_ or some shit.

“Soft,” Craig said, under his breath, and gave the shirt a shake, to get out the wrinkles and take a good look at the front. “Judas Priest?”

“It’s _vintage,_ isn’t that, ah, what you like? _”_ Tweek said with an edge of flirtatious mockery, “And nobody wears the shirt of the band they’re seeing to a gig, anyway, unless they’re a fuckin’ nerd. Figured you’d know that.”

“Dick,” muttered Craig, extinguishing his smoke. But, he was smiling that smile again. Tweek appreciated the short glance he got of Craig’s bare torso as he peeled off his sullied Moop shirt and replaced it with Tweek’s own, hoping that he’d get to run his hands along that trail of hair on Craig’s flat stomach sooner rather than later.

“Looks good on you. You can keep it,” Tweek said, breathlessly, “I better get out there.”

Then, Craig rose. His long legs carried him in a few short strides over to the door, where Tweek was now poised with his hand on the knob, and, without a word, he spun Tweek around, pinned him against the door, and captured his lips in a firm kiss.

The moment they parted, Craig said, “I want to see you again,” against Tweek’s lips, like he’d never been more sure of anything.

Tweek grinned. “Backstage? After?”

“Yeah, but…” Craig paused, seeming to think better of whatever he was going to say next, and nodded. “Okay. Backstage, after the show.”

Their journey down the dimly-lit hallway to the auditorium backstage seemed entirely too short. Heavy clicks from Tweek’s new boots echoed against the linoleum. They were far from the most comfortable pair of shoes he’d ever worn, but he would have more than enough time to break them in. Checking behind him to see if any of his bandmates or their crew were following, and discovering they were not, Tweek reached for Craig’s hand. Their fingers laced together, tightly, as they walked slower than they probably should’ve. “Hey, um… I wasn’t, ah, very nice to you either so… Sorry. For when we met,” Tweek said.

And, Craig snorted a laugh. “Pretty sure that you railing me gets us on the same page, hmm?”

“Is that how it works?” Tweek giggled, “A-and, I can totally last longer than fifteen minutes, too, man! That was just… you’re something else, you know that?”

From the corner of his eye, Tweek saw Craig smile. “I dunno. Might have to go for round two, and go as long as you can give it to me, so we’re _really_ even.”

“Fuck,” Tweek muttered, flashes of their encounter dancing across his memory, making his face turn red and his spine tingled. Then, louder, he tripped over his words as he added, “I _swear_ I don’t, _agh!_ I-I promise I don’t normally do this, I wasn’t lying or anything, you were actually the first, ngh, person I’ve done that with who I haven’t, ah, dated? I-in my dressing room, I mean I’ve had hookups at bars and stuff like _that,_ but just not...” he tugged at his hair with his free hand, “Um, not very many, and never if they know who I am.”

“Bullshit, not with how good you were,” said Craig, a little too loudly, “Really?”

Tweek shot him a glare. “Yes.”

 _“Really?_ And you’re a rock star. No way.”

“Really.”

They arrived backstage quicker than Tweek wanted, which meant that they had to, finally, _unfortunately_ , let go of each others’ hands. Stan, Token, and Kyle, whose hair was the shortest Tweek had ever seen it, cut close to the scalp on the sides and back, but left long enough in the front that a ringlet of red flopped around his eyebrow, were waiting in the wings, looking more comfortable in their new, edgy look than Tweek had imagined, even if Kyle was sporting a sour expression. Craig regarded them in a kind of up-and-down glance that reminded Tweek of the judges he’d seen on television dog-shows, but he seemed to approve, since he simply nodded, without comment.

The audience was clapping. The crew was onstage, finishing setting up and tuning their instruments, Eric was in the corner by a fixture of stage lights, gesticulating wildly as he gabbed on his cellphone about something-or-other, which the person on the other end probably couldn’t hear, anyway… the only person missing was Butters, which was odd, because he was _never_ late. Just as Tweek was about to voice his concern aloud, footsteps and ragged breath sounded behind them, and Craig was tapped on the shoulder.

Butters, his flannel shirt buttoned nearly to the collar, looked utterly confused. “Hey, bud- um, Mr. Tucker, where were you? You were supposed to-"

“I thought I was clear,” said Craig, slowly, “That you were supposed to tie your shirt around your waist, since if people see your arms you might finally get some attention.”

“O-oh, okie dokie, then,” stammered Butters, hastily unbuttoning his shirt to knot the arms around his hips.

“Nice ink,” Craig said, nodding toward the black-and-white flowers adorning Butters’ left arm, “One tattoo isn’t gonna do it for you, though. Take that into account.”

“Yep, ah, yessir! I was thinking about getting more, I even said to the guys the other day that-"

“Cool story, Butters,” Kenny said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, as he was wont to do, “All right, bro,” he said, to Craig, “Security’s gonna take you down front. Hey, Clyde, here’s your guy!”

Craig, before heading off, leaned down, to whisper into Tweek’s ear, “Good luck, Tweek. You’re amazing.” Tweek felt a jolt at the base of his spine from Craig’s hot breath and low, rumbling voice. “You _look_ amazing.”

“That’s all you,” he breathed, “I’ll try and look for you.”

“I’m not gonna take my eyes off of you,” Craig said, with a brush of his knuckles to Tweek’s hand.

Everyone saw. Tweek didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he murmured. They held each others’ gaze until they couldn’t anymore, Craig rounding the corner with their security guy, and disappearing into the crowd.

Tweek was jolted back to life by a firm hand gripping his shoulder. “Holy shit, you fucked him,” Kenny stated, amused.

Tweek emitted a tiny, high-pitched grunt. “Shut _up,_ Kenny! I, ah, I did not,” he protested unconvincingly.

“You so did. Nice job.”

“N-no I fucking didn’t!”

Kenny clicked his tongue. “That’s why he’s wearing your Judas Priest shirt. And why you’re already all sweaty. Because you _didn’t_ fuck him.”

“Yeah, well, keep your mouth shut, man,” Tweek said, looking around to make sure nobody was listening… although, he was _positive_ they were.

“Like everyone isn’t gonna find out, anyway, with you guys lookin’ at each other like that. Besides…” Kenny grinned. “Dude was a guest judge on Drag Race probably seven times or some shit. He’s, like, _god-_ status in fashion, you’re not gonna be able to keep that shit under wraps. One cell phone backstage, and you’ll be all over the internet.”

 _What?_ “I thought, agh! You _knew_ who he was?” Tweek shoved Kenny away with a disgruntled shriek, and a spasm of his head. “The whole time?”

“Like I’d ever miss an episode. Sashay away, Tweek.”

“What?! What the hell does  _that_ mean?"

“Oh my god, and _you’re_ the gay one,” Kenny said, under his breath, before shouting, “Break a leg, motherfuckers!”

Then, it was time.

When they were onstage, Tweek forgot how difficult it was to discern individual faces in the audience. All of the bright lights and the cheering of the crowd were always enough of a sensory overload that he’d block it out, anyway, and just focus on his playing, on the synchronicity of the band, on their sound, on the music.

But, he knew that Craig was there, somewhere, watching him. He could still taste the other man on his lips, during the entire show. He hoped, and somehow knew, that Craig was thinking the same thing.

That night, he played better than he could remember playing in a long while. It was, as the tweets and bloggers and reviewers said, the perfect send-off to Moop’s first solo tour, and it was a night that Tweek would surely remember for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

Tweek was _so_ nervous, freaking the _fuck_ out, that Craig wasn’t going to show, oh _god_ where the fuck _was_ he? _He said he’d be here._

There weren’t _that_ many people backstage, most either the band, or their friends. Kenny and Clyde were chatting up a couple of girls with crop tops and perfect eyebrows who Tweek _hoped_ were old enough to drink the Mikes’ they were nursing, and Kyle engaged in conversation with an oddly familiar, strikingly pretty girl with long, sandy-brown hair while Stan, sitting cross-legged on a sofa and swigging a tall boy, tapped angrily on his phone and shot transparently jealous, sidelong glances in the direction of his best friend. Butters and Eric were, as usual, the only people chowing down on a party sub. Token was absent - his wife had wanted him home _right_ after their show, since their time before the band hit the road was limited.

But, no sign of Craig. Tweek was on his third beer, the alcohol making his head feel like it was filled with fizz. He’d updated his Instagram and Twitter, like he was supposed to. He’d done all of the good-jobs and the nice-to-meet-yous and the thank-yous and the selfies, and he was about ready to call it a night, to give up, give into the exhaustion and skip the afterparty altogether. He was just about to go say his goodbyes, and go back home, when he finally showed.

Craig, hair disheveled with sweat, eyes glistening joyously and mouth stretched into a grin, practically ran over to Tweek. Their eyes locked, and Tweek _almost_ kissed him, but realized that Craig had caught the attention of the women hanging out with Kenny and Clyde, who had already snapped a couple pictures on their phones. Thinking better of it, Tweek took a somewhat anxious sip of his beer.

“Made it,” Craig panted, “Line was kinda long.” He indicated the long, rolled-up tube in his hand.

“Dude… you seriously bought a _poster?”_ Tweek giggled.

“Shut up, you’re signing this later.”

Tweek snorted. “Jesus, man. How, ah… did I look okay?”

“You were so awesome!” he practically shouted, “And sexy,” he added in a whisper, before shaking his head and saying, in an excited, totally un-Craiglike voice, “And, fuck, I don’t even _care_ what the fuck you look like right now, ‘cause you guys were fucking _great!”_

Craig accepted a beer - one of Stan and Kenny’s cheap PBRs, no less, which was entirely unexpected from the likes of him - and he and Tweek shoved Stan over to settle on the couch, thighs pressed together. That small bit of contact was enough for Tweek to crave _more,_ for his belly to stir and his heart to stutter.

“I dunno if I can, ah, make my eyeliner look like this by myself,” Tweek said, after a comfortable silence settled around them. _Comfortable._ That was weird. _Good_ weird. Tweek was rarely comfortable at these things, but, oddly, this man he barely knew made him feel completely at ease.

“Sure you can,” Craig said. His hand was halfway on his own thigh, and halfway on Tweek’s, like he was trying to be sneaky about touching him. Tweek’s phone vibrated several times in his jacket pocket, which he deliberately ignored.

“Or… you could come with us? On tour,” Tweek tossed out, then winced. _What the fuck am I thinking,_ he thought, and, his speech speeding up, he tried to cover his tracks. “Assuming y-you don’t, _ack,_ don’t have any other commitments or anything because if you do just totally forget I asked, it was dumb, but we’ll pay you and Eric w-would probably be pretty happy about it and-”

“It could probably be arranged,” Craig said.

“And seriously, agh, just forget I asked you because that was so _stupid_ and I’m just… What?” Tweek took a large gulp of beer to steady himself, nearly choking on it. “What’d you say?”

“It could be arranged,” Craig repeated, with a nod, “I can send my assistant out to LA for that thing I’ve got with Kylie.”

Tweek stared at him, dumbstruck.

Craig continued, “Our collaboration is pretty much ready to go, and I’ve had about enough of that family for a while, anyway. They’re best in small doses.”

“Wait, dude, you seriously do work with the Kar-“

“Yep, sometimes,” huffed Craig, like it was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

“Her, ah, Kylie’s makeup thing?” Tweek blushed, embarrassed that he actually _knew_ about that, and even _more_ humiliated at himself for actually _caring._

“Yes,” Craig said, “Packaging and color selection on my part, mostly.”

“What are they, agh, is it like the show?” Tweek would _never_ publicly admit that, on his days off, he had a tendency to burrow under a blanket, sipping mug after mug of hot coffee, and binge trashy reality television, but, well… he couldn’t deny his curiosity. While he was at it, he made a mental note that he should probably get around to watching that Drag Race show, especially  _now._

“Ugh, why is that always the first thing everyone asks me about,” Craig grumbled, although his smile betrayed the fact that he wasn’t really _that_ annoyed, “Kim isn’t nearly as dumb as she seems, Kylie totally _is_ , Kris is exactly the way you’d imagine and the others are, I don’t know, whatever, they’re really rich, you know how rich L.A. people like that are.” He made a vague gesture with his arm, before changing back to the subject at hand. “I can work remotely, for the most part. I’ll figure it out.”

Tweek beamed. He must’ve been a little tipsy, because Craig’s hand felt _really_ nice in his and he didn’t even notice that he’d reached for it. His phone was going _crazy,_ but he still didn’t want to look.

Craig squeezed his hand. “And I’m not kidding, I really _am_ a huge fan so you have no fucking idea how awesome that is. I’d tell Kylie to stuff it even if I didn’t have an assistant if it meant getting to hear you play.”

“Maybe we, _agh.”_   Tweek clenched his jaw, then willed himself to continue. “Maybe we could go to dinner sometime, too? If that’s ok! I-if it’s not, we can just keep this professional, I mean-”

“I’d really like that, as long as we don’t have to talk about the Kardashians the whole time. I want to know more about _you.”_ Craig’s thumb moved in a small circle upon the pad of Tweek’s palm.

“Deal,” breathed Tweek. “Kyle’s not gonna like it that you’re coming with,” he added.

Craig raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Check it out.” He nodded in Kyle’s direction. “Someone likes his haircut.”

Oblivious to the fact that Stan was outright glowering at them, Kyle was grinning as he soaked up the attention of the girl with the sandy hair. She reached up, smiling, to brush an errant curl back into place, and Tweek _finally_ realized from where he recognized her, feeling stupid as all hell that he hadn’t in the first place.

“Is… Sweet _Jesus_ is that Heidi Turner? I-I gotta go, hng, I loved her in _Leprechaun: Bloodbath,_ I gotta go say something! Hold my beer, man!” He was halted from jolting off of the sofa by Craig, still clutching his hand.

“Hey, wait,” he said, “You like those dumb horror movies?”

“Yeah? I-I mean, I know they’re fuckin’ stupid, but-”

“Me too. You know she’s doing a sequel, right?”

Tweek’s eyes went wide. He did _not_ know. “Agh, _really?_ How do you even, I mean I haven’t heard any publicity about it, so…”

“She’s a friend of a friend, I’ll introduce you. Want another beer first? Thing’s almost empty, I’ll get ‘em, stay here.”

He checked his phone, after Craig got up. The first notification, from Twitter, read, _@tweek-t-tweak @ctuckerofficial OMG GET IT GURL!!!_ Face heating up, and a twitch wracking his body, he swallowed, and clicked the lock button, stuffing the device back into his leather jacket before he even dared to glance at the rest of them.

He sucked in a breath.

_Fuck it._

He _liked_ Craig. He could handle a little attention. Everything was going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> join us @southparkkinkmeme on tumblr! you can follow me on @super-craig-is-gay (main) and/or @rachhells-lair (nsfw blog) if you'd like!


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